


Travails In The German Bight (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [73]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bribery, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Royalty, Threats, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10879884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Watson's first venture abroad, and the tangled skein of Anglo-German politics on a small island in the German Ocean is unravelled by Sherlock, who once again proves himself rather more than a friend





	Travails In The German Bight (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the affair of the King of Scandinavia'.

Foreword: The German Empire at this time, just under two decades after it had been formed, contained many nominally independent sub-states, some of whom – Saxony, Württemberg and Bavaria – retained their kings. In practice however Prussia, constituting over half the Empire's population and size, pretty much ran things as it wanted, hence 'Prussian' was used interchangeably with 'German' to describe the country.

+~+~+

To those who know it not, Heligoland consists of two small islands some four hours’ travel from the German coast. They had become a British possession when captured from Denmark during the Napoleonic Wars back at the start of the century, having been subsequently used to help break the attempted French blockade of our islands. I assumed that they were kept as a deterrent against any further French moves against northern Europe, although they had not really been fortified much, and with a now united Germany being increasingly militaristic, they were more of an annoyance to both London and Berlin than anything else. 

I had also been unprepared for just how small even the main island was, a mile long and less than half a mile wide. At least I would not be subjected to any long walks!

Of course, there was a catch. A six-foot blond catch waiting for us at the hotel, namely Mr. Bacchus Holmes. And rather oddly he had someone with him, or at least someone that he was keeping an eye on; a fair-haired blue-eyed young fellow of about sixteen years of age, apparently engrossed in a work of romantic fiction of some sort. Honestly, boys these days!

Sherlock chuckled at his brother’s evident discomfiture. 

“All right”, he smiled. “What have you done this time, Bacchus?”

His brother drew himself up and sniffed haughtily.

“I have ‘done’ nothing”, he muttered, clearly not wishing to be overheard, even though we had met in an alcove in the hotel’s main reception room. “That dratted boy….”

He drew a deep breath before continuing.

“I came over from Wilhelmshaven the night before last, because the governor here is having a fit about these few pebbles becoming a major European incident”, he said, sounding almost angry. “And that little runt over there managed to secrete himself on board the ship somehow, and then told the hotel staff that he had come over with me!”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Peter Sonderburg”, Bacchus said, scratching his nose with a long finger. “Trust a Viking to manage to cross the seas at the wrong time!”

“Who is he?” I asked, thinking that the boy did indeed have something of the Viking about him.

“The potential King of Denmark, just because the current one’s great-something-or-other-grandfather couldn’t keep it in his trousers!” Mr. Bacchus Holmes moaned. “The Germans were cock-a-hoop over this beforehand; they’ll be unbearable now. And there is not exactly any way that we can smuggle him back; the brat knew full well what he was about.”

“The Germans will threaten to make a diplomatic incident of the matter when they 'discover' your kidnapping of the boy”, Sherlock smiled, “and will demand as the price of their forbearance for your 'crime' that Her Majesty’s Government support or at least remain neutral in their pushing the boy’s claim forward. Their newspapers already proclaim him 'the King of Scandinavia.”

(I should explain at this point that the old Danish royal dynasty, the Oldenburgs, had died out with King Frederick VII back in 'Sixty-Three. He had been succeeded by a distant cousin, Christian IX, first king of the House of Glücksburg. Great Britain had a natural interest in the Baltic, and had been instrumental in securing the new king's succession (the London Protocol), and his daughter Alexandra had married the Prince of Wales at the start of the eighties. Despite this, it was rumoured – correctly, I suspected – that the new king was far more pro-German than Great Britain would have liked, and that as such he might well be amenable to dealing with Berlin rather than London. I would have thought that the Danes might have learnt their lesson after the bloody nose we gave them – twice – during the Napoleonic Wars, but apparently some people do not learn their history lessons.)

“They cannot honestly think that King Christian will just give up his throne!” I scoffed. 

Mr. Bacchus Holmes looked like he was about to say something rude to me in reply, but he caught his brother's warning look just in time. He visibly bit back his annoyance. I did not crow.

All right, I did not crow much. Technically, smirking is not the same as crowing.

“They hope to wring some concessions instead”, Sherlock explained, eyeing his brother balefully as he spoke. “The island of Bornholm in the eastern Baltic, for example, is small but strategically important. The Germans might offer to set the boy up in his own puppet kingdom there, and thereby control a key part of their seaways in all but name.”

“I see”, I said. “So if the boy were to be found to have been kidnapped by a British government agent....”

“I did not kidnap the brat!” the lounge-lizard hissed, a little too loudly. The boy in question looked up from his book and smiled across at the three of us. Sherlock looked thoughtfully across at him, then nodded.

“This case will require some investigation”, he said firmly. “Here, and in Wilhelmshaven. Watson, I shall need you to do some work here whilst I take a short trip to the mainland tomorrow. I shall be back by the evening boat.”

“Of course”, I said, not smirking even more at Mr. Bacchus Holmes' visible irritation at my inclusion in matters. 

All right, there was some top-notch smirking. Satisfied?

+~+~+

There was a telegram for Sherlock that evening, and as he had gone out for a brief walk, I signed for it. I did not mean to, but in glancing at it I saw what looked like a set of letters and numbers. Presumably someone was writing to him in code.

I gave him the message when he returned, and he looked at it carefully before smiling slightly.

“Good news?” I asked.

To my surprise, he looked a little uncertainly at me.

“I arranged for Miss Bradbury to track how the newspapers are following the story of Mrs. Aston-Waye”, he said. “The coverage is dying down at about the rate she expected, although the fact that she is the widow of a relatively well-known member of parliament is not helping.”

“And all those wiseacres in England will still be uttering that terrible phrase, 'there is no smoke without fire'”, I sighed. “Let alone deducing that my departure from the country shows that I had to have been guilty after all.”

“I have made it clear that, as part of the prosecution of that dreadful female, she is to write and pay for a full confession in all the London papers”, Sherlock said angrily. “I know that there will always be some exceptionally stupid people out there, but I will not have the likes of her ruin the reputation of the man I.... admire more than any other.”

I nodded my thanks, and retreated behind my paper, my thoughts suddenly racing like an express train. That hesitation – what has he been about to say before he had changed his mind? Surely not....?

I slept little that night.

+~+~+

Whatever my friend had been about to say to me the day before was, I quickly realized, Not To Be Spoken About. Unusually, Sherlock retreated behind a paper at the breakfast table, although I still got a look of thanks when I duly forked over half my bacon to him. Some things did not change.

But something had changed. Sherlock had to depart to catch the morning ferry, and before leaving he re-iterated that he would be back on the evening boat that got in around five, giving him some three to four hours in Wilhelmshaven. He was never one for physical expressions, but before leaving he pulled me into an embrace that went on for rather longer than was socially acceptable. We were in an isolated part of the eating area however, and I did not feel the least bit inclined to remove myself from his inhuman warmth.

+~+~+

The one odd thing that I remember from Sherlock's absence that day was when the lounge-lizard took the boy for a walk so that I could do a quick search of his room. I found very little of interest, except that the boy had a collection of the works of American author Mark Twain, which I thought unusual. I made a note to mention it to Sherlock; doubtless he would solve the whole case from it!

I should not have been so cynical. The detective's eyes lit up when I showed him the list of titles that I had gathered.

“An unusual choice of literature”, he mused. “Mr. Twain is rumoured to be writing a story about an American being transported back in time to the court of King Arthur. Sometimes I wonder about the way his country exercises their jealously-guarded freedom of speech!”

“Did you find anything of interest in Wilhelmshaven?” I asked. 

“I did”, he said. “I went to Herr Bernard Rustringen's house.”

“Who?” I asked.

“One of Germany's most powerful spymasters, and a key player in the events surrounding 'the King of Scandinavia'”, Sherlock explained. “The kind thing to do would of course to go and find Bacchus, and put him out of his misery.”

He did not move a muscle. I liked him even more just then.

+~+~+

We went for a walk around the whole island – well, what there was of it – before dinner, and my feelings towards it improved with the sunny if occasionally blustery weather, which seemed determined to make an even bigger mess of my friend's hair than was the norm. I was not sure how, but I could detect that my recent crisis seemed to have changed my friend almost more than it had myself. Sherlock was far more 'clingy' than usual, and at one point near a lookout spot, he moved so close to me that we were touching. Yes, there were many layers of clothes between us, but I could still feel his inhuman warmth coming through to me, and I felt strangely confident. Whatever the future held, I had this man beside me. I would be fine.

We met the lounge-lizard and his young charge at dinner. We ordered our food and, once it had come, Sherlock began by turning to the boy.

“I have been mulling this over”, he said carefully, “and I have a question for you. Do you really wish to be a king these days?”

“No!” the boy said forcefully, “and I told your brother that! I cannot help who my parents or my ancestors were; I wish they had never done whatever the Hell they did to put me through all this!”

“Then it is easily sorted”, Sherlock said, producing a smart brief-case from under the table (when had he put that there, I wondered?). He extracted a piece of paper and a pen, and placed both in front of the boy. “This is a Certificate of Revocation. By signing it in front of two witnesses – the doctor and myself should suffice – you formally waive all claim to the thrones of Scandinavia. It is short, to the point, and you should read it before signing, of course. I managed to find a German lawyer whilst I was in Wilhelmshaven, and he drew it up in both German and English for me. I know that you are fluent in both languages.”

“Of course”, the boy said, transferring the paper to his left to scan it more thoroughly, before neatly signing his name at the bottom of both parts. Sherlock added his and I mine, then my friend folded the paper and placed it back in the brief-case. He seemed to move to summon a waiter, but then apparently changed his mind, and we resumed our interrupted meal.

We had almost finished when one of the bell-boys walked into the middle of the room and called out, “Telegram for Mr. Jacob Hannover”. The boy started for some reason, and I wondered why.

“Should you not answer your telegram, Jacob?” Sherlock asked politely.

“What?” I said, confused.

“What?” Mr. Bacchus Holmes echoed. Sherlock smiled.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Master Jacob Hannover, son of one of the richest merchants in Wilhelmshaven”, Sherlock said airily, as if he was not turning our world on its head. “In some aspects just a regular German schoolboy, distinguished by only two things; his close friendship with a certain Master Peter Sonderburg who attends the same school as he does, and a reasonable physical silimarity to the same.”

His brother stared the the boy in shock who, after blushing, looked defiantly back at him.

“Who is 'Jacob Hannover'?” he demanded.

“You are”, Sherlock said. “You gave yourself away on more than one occasion. The real Peter Sonderburg is right-handed, yet you signed that paper with your left hand. And the faint mark on the rim of your collar is from the dye you use to keep your mousy brown hair blond, like that of your friend; boys your age do not need to resort to such devices. Of course you were prepared to sign this document, as you are not the real 'King of Scandinavia'.”

“You still kidnapped me!” the boy pointed out. “And when my people find out....”

“Jacob”, Sherlock said, and his voice was suddenly menacing, “believe me when I tell you what I am about to tell you. I can guarantee that they will never find out!”

The boy looked back at him, alarmed. Sherlock was fixing him with that focussed glare of his, the one that spelt doom for those on the receiving end of it.

“You are young”, Sherlock said, “but the world is a dangerous place, my boy, and sometimes the follies of youth can be costly. Doubtless you and Peter thought this a great joke, especially when the opportunity arose so soon after reading a certain book that gave you the idea.”

“What book?” I asked. Sherlock picked up the novel next to the boy's meal.

“This is “The Prince And The Pauper”, by Mr. Mark Twain”, Sherlock said, showing me the book. “It tells how a beggar boy and King Edward VI of England swapped roles for a time, and all the chaos that ensued. Young Peter was already in the thrall of Herr Rustringen, who knew that the arrival of a principal English spy in the port was an excellent opportunity to cause embarrassment to London and help the Fatherland. The outside world could be made to think that the British had attempted to kidnap the boy, and the Germans would demand that their adversaries accede to their plans for 'the King of Scandinavia' to avoid any bad publicity.”

“It was still kidnapping”, the boy said weakly.

“Only if they find the body”, Sherlock said lightly, cutting up a sausage.

Peter – Jacob - looked round anxiously, and Sherlock sighed. 

“Boy, the staff here are all in Bacchus' pay”, he said calmly. “You yourself said that you sneaked onto the island undetected.”

“I sent Peter a telegram earlier”, the boy said defiantly.

“Anyone can send a telegram”, Sherlock said. “No, if you do choose to make a fuss here, or tell anyone about your time on the island – well, the seas around these islands are, as the old hymn says, deep and wide. Plenty of space in which to dispose of a small body.”

The boy had gone even paler.

“However, if you were to slip back to Wilhelmshaven and pass the whole thing off as a joke of your won devising”, Sherlock said thoughtfully, “then perhaps all might be well. _Might_ be. Though of course, should a different story somehow emerge in the future – well, there are some people in the world who have to live their lives in the knowledge that someone out there is determined to kill them, and that the person hunting them down only has to be lucky the one time.”

“You would kill me?” the boy quavered.

“Not just you”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes put in. 

The boy looked as if he was going to faint.

“Death comes to us all”, the lounge-lizard said, “but some people tend to draw His attention not just to themselves, but to those around them. As I am sure you and your German spymaster are aware, the British have agents across your country, many of whom are keeping their heads down. Sleepers, as we say in the trade. One oddly-worded telegram to one of them, and I can guarantee that not only would you be dead within twenty-four hours, but all your friends and family too. Starting with your 'royal' friend.”

“You would kill my family?” the boy gasped. “That is evil!”

“No”, Sherlock said, spearing the last piece of sausage and frowning at his plate. “That is politics. Why is there no bacon?”

+~+~+

Peter/Jacob was dispatched back to mainland Germany on a British frigate overnight, and from the subsequent failure of the story to emerge into the light of day, I assume that fear of the consequences kept him silent, most certainly to Berlin's great annoyance. I came down to breakfast late the following morning, to find the blue-eyed genius alone at breakfast.

“No Bacchus?” I asked, quietly pleased.

“He has returned on the morning boat back to Wilhelmshaven, for some business that he has in France”, Sherlock explained, forking what looked like half a pig's worth of bacon onto his plate. It was a Saturday, and the hotel apparently did a 'buffet breakfast, to my friend's evident delight. It was good to see him so happy.

“The boat back to England sails when?” I asked.

“It has gone”, he said. When I looked surprised, he continued, “Bacchus has two problems at the same time – such is the life of a government fixer - and asked if we would look into the one in the Netherlands. So I thought that we might sail to Wilhelmshaven on the afternoon boat, spend the night there, and travel on round the coast tomorrow.”

“Not another errant schoolboy, I hope”, I said, looking a little forlornly at the empty bacon platter. A hotel waiter bustled up and evidently shared my astonishment, before heading off to the kitchen. Sherlock beamed at me.

“No”, he said. “Royalty again. Possibly real this time. Or possibly not.”

What?

“Sherlock!” I complained (it was not a whine, whatever anyone said). He sniggered.

“We shall leave this afternoon”, he said. “Are you packed?”

“Not tomorrow?” I asked.

“Why tomorrow?” he said, puzzled.

“They do a buffet breakfast on Sunday as well”, I said. I looked pointedly at his plate and the mountain of bacon on it, before adding a little testily, “or at least, they were planning to!”

He blushed.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Three years after the events described here, Heligoland was exchanged with Germany for the island of Zanzibar and the territory of Wituland (the area around the port of Lamu) in East Africa, which latter the British used to drive a railway into the heart of the Dark Continent in their efforts to eliminate the slave trade. The territory was later expanded northwards and westwards to form British East Africa, now renamed the Colony of Kenya after its highest mountain.

+~+~+

In our next case, religion plays a major part, not for the first time in what was rapidly becoming our Continental Adventure.


End file.
